Bucephalus Bouncing Ball
by The Egg and I
Summary: Nolanverse HarleyxJoker. Mature rated for disturbing/sexual content.
1. Chapter 1

She had more of the body of a 1950s starlet than a medical doctor. Her face however, was stone cold—fair, flawless skin; her small pink mouth drawn inward in a almost sour-looking purse. Her eyes were an icy blue—unreadable behind her oval silver-rimmed spectacles.

All of her new co-workers tripped over their wagging tongues to help her move the countless bank-boxes containing binders full of research documents, important books, and innumerable awards and certificates out of her sensible 4-door sedan to the good doctor's new office.

Harleen Quinzel MD

Was pressed in perfect white lettering against the black linoleum plate on the solid oak door—just under the frosted glass, but well above the brass doorknob.

Her habiliments would have been frumpy on anyone less curvaceous. The slate grey turtleneck and co-coordinating black knee-length pencil skirt left plenty to the imagination—while evoking images of Marilyn and Jessica Rabbit. Hardly what one would conjure up when picturing the new in-house shrink at Arkham.

Once she settled in, and the shameless hordes of male doctors, direct care technicians, and janitors alike had left her alone—the resident nurse ratchet type came by with the "daily menu" ( Or her patient schedule as it was affectionately referred to by the staff at Arkham) secured steadfastly to a clear acrylic clipboard. This was it—the list of patient appointments for the day. It would be her bible, her compact. This was what she had been waiting for:

9:00am –Edward Nigma

10:30 am- Pamela Isley

11:45 am- Stephen Crane

Harleen leaned back, her cup of coffee getting cold on her desk. She knew well that the caffine would only make matters worse. Her teeth were grinding, and she could feel the tiny beads of sweat forming at her hairline and underneath the nose-pads on her glasses. As much as she wanted to pretend that she wasn't intimidated by her pre-lunch line up, the truth was—for the first time since childhood, she was seriously doubting herself.

And then her eyes jerked, her pulse rate galloped, and her solar plexus began to buzz with the sharp pain of anxiety. There—in perfect computer print on the paper—nestled after lunch and before her business meeting with the commissioner:

2:00pm The Joker

She'd never seen him in person, but it was her theoretical research paper which featred him as her choice of topic that caused Arkham to take interest in her. She'd spent months sifting through transcripts and videotaped sessions with previous shrinks; knee deep in artifacts that might help unravel the Joker persona to reveal the man behind the greasepaint.

Some might have suggested that her research took a turn to the obsessive. Upon considering this, Harleen did her best to prove the contrary—but she knew in her heart of hearts that it was true. However, Harleen did believe that once she could answer even just one of the questions she had formulated surrounding him—that it would be enough, and just like everything else—this too would pass.

Her first appointment of the day had gone as well as could be expected. Edward Nigma, better known by his nom-de-crime "The Riddler" –was barely functioning at this point in his career. His paranoid schizoid delusions had more-or-less wholly consumed his reality. During the few windows of lucidity in their session together, Edward was more interested in playing mind-games and puzzling Dr. Quinzel than having a real exchange with her.

Harleen was relieved to see her next patient was more stable. When they brought Pamela Isley in, apart from the thin robin's egg blue hospital ensemble she wore—she looked almost like a "normal" person. Unlike most of Arkham's residents, her hair was clean and cared for—and as much it could be, her appearance was well-kempt. But she looked tired—and worn. Her skin was somewhat sallow—and Harley could certainly detect a slight shiver as Pamela took a seat in the hard metal chair across from her desk.

"Are you cold?" Doctor Quinzel asked—genuine concern in her voice.

"A bit." The woman's voice was still full and proud—despite her situation.

"There's a sweater on the coat rack over there." Harleen gestured with her pen to a luxurious cashmere sweater. "you can put that on—won't do anyone any good for you to catch cold."

"Thank you Doctor." Pamela did not smile, just stood from her chair—and set about retrieving the garment.

"So, I see that you've put in a request for green-house access Pamela." Dr. Quinzel read casually from the file infront of her.

"I did, infact, process such a request." There was a hint of defiance in Isley's voice—but her face betrayed no emotion.

"I also see here that you were denied."

"That is, again, true Doctor." Isley huffed slightly.

"You seem to be surprised, and angry that the administration has denied you this privilege Pamela."

Pamela said nothing—the muscles along her jawline starting to twitch ever-so-slightly.

"I hardly find it surprising that they would deny Gotham's most prominent eco-terrorist the means to execute her own escape." Dr. Quinzel sighed.

Isley's hands balled into fists in her lap.

"What about you Pamela? Do you think it's really"

"WHAT IF YOU WERE SEPARATED FROM THE ONLY THING YOU EVER LOVED!?" Isley boomed—shooting up from her chair, hands still clenched at fists at her side.

Dr. Quinzel blinked—she had expected this response—albeit after a bit more prodding and poking. She decided to continue letting the woman vent her frustrations.

"This place is dead! Everyone here is just hollow and dead inside!" She continued—tears beginning to form at the corner of her eyes.

"And everyone is dead out there too! They're killing each other, they're killing themselves, and they're killing our mother—the sacred earth!" The tears began to roll from her cheeks and down her nose—but still her voice was strong.

"Everyone is dying—in here and out there—and I don't want to stop it, I don't even want to slow it down—all I want" she gasped a little—her sobbing starting to get the best of her speech.

"all I want," she hiccupped.

"What Pamela?" Harleen cooed, pushing her chair away from her desk and slowly made her way over to the sobbing Isley.

"What is it that you want darling?" Harleen managed in her most maternal voice possible—draping her delicate arms like bird's wings around her patient.

"I just want to grow something while I'm here" Pamela sniffled.

"I'm going to die here anyway—I just want to grow something."

And with that—Pamela broke down into tears once more—burying her face in Dr. Quinzel's shoulder.

Dr. Kosta, Harleen's supervisor sat grinning ear to ear on the other side of his elaborately carved mahogany desk. The wrinkles around his eyes made large creases as he did so—which rippled into the wrinkles made at the corners of his mouth.

"I am incredibly impressed Dr. Quinzel—you got Ms. Isley to exhibit some real wonderful human behavior today! That's the most coherent we've seen her in almost four weeks!" He beamed proudly.

"So you will consider granting her _very_ limited access to assisted garden time then?" Dr. Quinzel chirped hopefully.

"Of course not my dear girl!" Kosta chuckled.

"I, I don't understand." Harley stammered. "She's obviously making progress—if we continue with her treatment ; at this rate she stands a chance of a,"

"Of a what?" Kosta interrupted—the signs of laughter slowly draining from his face.

"Of a normal life?" He smiled wearily and gave a deep sigh.

"Dr. Quinzel, these aren't some screwed up kids—they are dangerous psychopaths. My only goal is to keep them here—and out of the GPD's hair. The less tranquilizers and 'medical force' the better—but none of these people—not one of them will ever leave this place. Ever."

Harley stood outside the glass revolving doors that lead to Arkham's main reception desk lighting a cigarette. The building had become a smoke-free zone after that cute-little-DA Rachel Dawes helped pass the bill that supposedly was to protect innocent people from the evils of second-hand smoke.

Now that pretty little Ms. Dawes was nothing more than a memory—and a notch in the Joker's metaphorical murder belt.

She had been so furious upon leaving her meeting with Kosta, that she had lost track of time. Frantically, she checked her watch.

1:53pm

"Shit," Harley hissed, dropping the cigarette butt onto the ground and grinding it out with one shiny patent-leather Laboutin.

She pushed through the revolving doors—and it was like everything was suddenly moving in slow motion. They had warned her that he would be sitting in a straight jacket—chained to the chair, to the floor. But nothing could have prepared her for that face.

His face was only part-illuminated by the overhead light in the small interrogation room. His dirty blond hair hung in greasy strands framing his face—a twisted patchwork of newsprint colored flesh and pinky-lavender scar tissue. His green eyes bored into her with a kind of intensity that could never have been captured in video or photograph.

He whistled a pretty, melancholy melody.

"Moonlight Sonata—Beethoven—first movement." Dr. Quinzel asserted firmly, pulling out a plastic folding chair from the bare stainless steel table that separated the two of them.

The joker stopped, however he appeared un-amused.

"Well, I wasn't going to say anything," Dr. Quinzel sighed. "But since you're being a grouch—I'm obligated to inform you you were a _little_ flat in the last few bars there."

She whistled a few notes.

"That's what it should've sounded like." She concluded.

"You know music huh doc?" The joker asked—the small smirk he began to make, greatly supplemented by his scar-tissue grin.

"Indeed, I'm also going to be your new therapist." She added curtly.

"Physical therapist I hope." He licked his lips compulsively.

"No need to be lewd Mr. Joker." Harleen snipped.

"Please, call me Joker—Mr. Joker was my father." Joker instructed sternly—before erupting into uncontrollable laughter.

Harley slammed her clipboard on the table—the loud noise bringing the joker back from his laughing fit.

"I'm doctor Harleen Quinzel," She barked sternly. "And I am not going to humor your antics any longer."

"Oh Harley baby," Joker started—eyes wide and face fearful. "You little dominatrix you!" He grinned crazily for a moment before once again exploding into laughter.

Harleen felt a flush heat up her cheeks. Her temper was getting the best of her. She took a deep breath—then all of the sudden, she began laughing herself.

"A-ha-ha-ha-ha!" She guffawed, she pulled her glasses off and leaned over—her laughing beginning to strain her breath, tears flowing from her eyes.

The joker stopped laughing. As a matter of fact—he didn't just stop, he seemed to get very angry.

"What's so funny?" He grumbled.

Harleen didn't answer—just kept slapping the table, laughter ringing from her gut.

"WHAT is SO FUNNY?" The joker growled.

"Your slippers," she sniffed slightly, getting a hold of herself—and pointing to his slightly ridiculous footwear. "A man your age wearing bunny slippers? Who would have thought Gotham's most notorious criminal had a thing for plush rabbits."

He looked down to his own feet—then back to the recovering doctor.

The grin on his face spread slowly—but completely from ear to ear. Her tactics had worked.

"A man my age?" He echoed—his tongue darting out of his mouth and sliding over his lips as he did so.

"and what age might that be Harley-baby? Have you even read my file?" He couldn't stifle the giggle that escaped.

Harley leaned back, confident in her ability to conduct the rest of the session as normally as possible. Had she read his file? Of course she had—there'd been no real identity—no birth certificates. Prints, dental imprints, DNA—nothing was matched anywhere. He was a true nowhere man.

"You know I have no way of knowing your age—only various biological triangulations. So, unless you're planning on inviting me to your birthday party Joker, I don't think this is going to be a productive way to spend our time."

"You can come to my birthday Harley-baby," He grinned, leaning forward and stage whispering: "As long as you pop out of the cake." He followed his own joke with an expected bout of enthusiastic laughter.

"Let's cut though the silliness shall we?" Harleen interrupted.

"I want to hear about the Bat Man." She continued.

The joker stopped laughing. He became so still, that she could swear that she could see his pulse beating in his neck. His eyes had gone dark—and his face had gone slack. She'd seen this before in some of the children she'd worked with in undergraduate school who had Aspergers or Autism when they experienced a non-vocal trigger. Harleen shifted slightly—and tossed her hair over one shoulder and pulled her glasses off of her face and set them on the table.

"I cleared out my whole afternoon schedule—I'll wait for as long as you like." She sighed lengthily.

She rubbed her hands together until they were warm and placed her palms over her eyes. She listened to the sounds of his breathing—quick and shallow. She could tell he was nervous.

"How about something smaller first hm?" She spoke—mostly to herself now, eyes still closed she began to rub at her temples.

"What brought you to Gotham?" She listened closely—she heard the imperceptible creak of his chair legs as he began to lean forward ever so slightly.

"What is it that you want?" She opened her eyes and leaned onto her elbows on the table—she saw something in his eyes flash; as if he were coming back from somewhere else deep inside his mind.

" Right now?" He grinned a dangerous sort of grin, letting out almost a low purr as he leaned forward.

"Yes right now." She encouraged.

"Ra-height this ve-ry second?" He continued—smacking sounds coming forth from his moistened lips.

"Yes, this very,"

"I want to fuck you _RAW_." He hissed—his eyes dark and glinting.

Harleen's breath caught in her lungs. She pushed back from the table in a whine of chair legs—and the flourish of papers. She grabbed her glasses from off the table and pushed them hastily up her nose and onto her face—as if they could protect her from those eyes.

"I think that's quite enough for today Joker." She quipped politely, backing toward the door.

"See you tomorrow Doc." He beamed. "I think we made some great progress today." He winked—then dissolved into hysterical laughter as she slammed the door shut behind her.


	2. Madreporic Plate

A/N: Thanks so much to everyone for your kind reviews etc. I apologize for my error in the last chapter—I noted Stephen Crane as opposed to Jonathan Crane (Scarecrow.) I know no one pointed it out—but it seemed silly to me none-the-less.

I'm going to warn you now—I'm not really following the comic or cartoon canon with the origins of the Joker for the rest of this story (though they themselves are sort of muddled here and there.) and as I've said before—this is the Nolan-verse Joker, Batman, and of course—our hypothetical Harleen (who's roots have also been chosen to do my bidding!)

Enjoy!

* * *

The music in the bar was deafening, but Harleen was not about to head home at a time like this. She'd anxiously looked over her shoulder on her way out of the asylum on her way to the car—despite the fact that she _knew_ he was chained and caged like an animal in that fortress of poured cement and barbed wire. She knew in her thinking brain that there was no way he was going to get her—but she could still feel his eyes on her.

Now she felt like the crazy person.

She'd gone straight from Arkham to her "best-friend's loft just before the Palisades limits. Sookie had been a member of Kappa Alpha Theta, just like Harleen while they were at Harvard together. She'd stayed on to study Law rather than medicine however—and since their graduation from undergraduate school, the two had stayed "Best Friends" in title and nostalgia more than anything else. All of this became irrelevant as Harleen desperately needed _someone_, in fact _anyone_ to be with to keep from being alone.

When she'd arrived at Sookie's, she'd done so under the pretext that she had come to celebrate Sookie's recent clinching of the open GC position at Wayne Industries. Sookie had been independently wealthy as of late from her hot-shot rise to legal stardom within the Gotham courts, but this was also supplemented by a small trust fund—which she had enjoyed since her girlhood. Ergo, the idea of going out and burning some cash in her name wouldn't be hard to convince her to do.

The two had gone out, both dressed in Sookie's designer wardrobe –with the purpose of getting smashed. Harleen stared down into the girly vodka drink that she had ordered and tried to ignore the pulsing bass beat. She couldn't help but think of those scars—that mouth—mangled yet beautiful in some sort of twisted way. She tried to imagine it as if it were some sort of rubix cube. In her mind's eye she twisted each slice of scar tissue—each piece of unaffected flesh until it made an un-marred visage.

"Let's go outside for a sec!" Sookie barked over the music—waving a pack of Dunhill lights in front of Harleen's face.

The two women stood outside the doors to the bar. It was early fall—and not yet too cold outside at night to need more than a light jacket. Harleen pulled out a pack of Nat Sherman fantasias and pulled one from its home and placed it between her glossed lips.

"So you'll never believe who I met today." Sookie gushed, tossing her short brown bob slightly as she did so.

_You wouldn't want to know who I met today._ Harleen thought to herself.

"Who?" Harleen played along—taking a long drag of her cigarette, and casually scanning the dark street in front of her; for reasons, she told herself, totally unrelated to the Joker and her meeting with him earlier today.

"Bruce Wayne!" Sookie squealed.

"You are working for his company." Harleen responded with a little less enthusiasm then her compatriot had desired.

"God, he is SO good looking in person Harley." Sookie beamed, adjusting her Chanel clutch under her arm.

"He's good looking, charming, rich," She continued.

"But he's not Jewish!" Harley laughed.

"I don't know Harl! I could make a little exception for Bruce Wayne—don't you think." Sookie giggled.

"Well, don't plan the wedding yet—you just met him—you haven't even…" Harley trailed off as she noticed a grin spread across Sookie's face.

"Oh my god—you have a date with Bruce Wayne don't you?" She blew smoke over her shoulder—as not to get it in her friend's eyes.

"That I do friend." Sookie confirmed as she dropped her cigarette onto the pavement and ushered her friend back into the bar.

It was about then that Sookie began rhapsodizing about the vuittons that she'd bought for the big date—and Harleen took an oblivious-seeking slug of her drink and tried hard not to think of those last few words with the joker that she'd exchanged over the brush steel stable of Arkham's special "therapy" room.

* * *

The next morning Harleen woke in her apartment on Max Shreck ave. Sookie must have taken her home in a cab after she blacked out at the bar. Her head was pounding, and her stomach felt like pop-rocks in a glass of coke, but at least she was in her own bed in her own clothes.

After willing herself to eat a piece of dry toast, and chugging 4 or five tall glasses of water—Harleen showered, blew out her shoulder-length platinum locks, and applied her Dior and Givenchy war paint—as was her custom, and readied herself to get back on the metaphorical horse, though she hadn't completely committed to the idea that she'd fallen off.

Pamela was almost smiling as she walked through the door to Harleen's office that morning.

"Good morning doctor." She greeted pleasantly before sitting down in the chair set out for her in front of Harleen's desk.

"Good morning Pamela, you look rather chipper this morning."

"It's a beautiful day out, they opened the windows in the cafeteria—and I could smell the leaves on the breeze." She sighed happily.

"I'm glad to hear it." Harleen feigned a smile, it was hard to believe that this woman was capable of the degree of violence and hate that her file said she was.

"How's your appetite doing?" Harleen asked with mild concern—like that of any primary care physician.

"Oh—well, as good as it can be for terrible food." Pamela laughed nervously.

The two women were silent for a moment as Harleen looked her over. She could tell by Pamela's frame that she would have never been as skinny outside of an institutional facility. She noted as well that the question had made Pamela noticeably embarrassed by her stringy legs and arms—so Harleen quickly changed the subject.

"So I spoke to Doctor Kosta about some greenhouse time," Harleen began—Isley's eyes lighting up, but then quickly fading as she continued. "And while he refused for the time being—I thought that these might interest you for a while."

Harleen reached into her desk and pulled out several large, thick-spine books. Each book had a particular botanical focus—one book featured various trees and shrubs, while another showcased tropical plants and flowers, another entirely dedicated to breeds of roses.

Isley said nothing—just feverishly opened each book, quickly examining each set of brilliant pictures on each glossy page.

"Now, I'm going to lend you these all week—and next week I'll bring new ones. But under two conditions." Harleen spoke.

"Anything—absolutely anything!" Isley exclaimed breathlessly without lifting her eyes from the books.

"One, you have to eat something." Harley began

"Done." Pamela affirmed.

"Two, we're going to talk about the Bat man—and I want you to be open and honest with me."

There was a silence. Isley closed the books and looked solemnly up to the good doctor and smiled gently.

"You can call me Red." She said sweetly—barely above a whisper.

* * *

Jonathan Crane preferred to have his therapy sessions in the solarium. Since there were plants in that room, it was an obvious choice as to why Isley's meetings were to be held in Dr. Quinzel's office.

Crane sat delicately in a plush arm chair by the window—a well worn copy of the portable Nietzsche in his hands. One of his house-slippers dangled from his right foot where it crossed over his left knee. Shortly after arriving at Arkham as a patient—he had cut his hair shorter—making it look almost blonde as he sat in the sunlight.

"Good morning John." Harley greeted, Crane's file held against her chest.

"Good morning doctor—how's Pamela doing?" He asked casually, folding the book down slightly as to fix those striking baby blues on her.

"I'm sure you'll remember John—there's a thing called doctor patient privilege." She sighed, taking up a seat just across from him.

"Oh please!" He scoffed, closing the book completely and placing it in his lap.

"I'm a crazy now—just like the rest of them!" he batted his eyelashes.

"It wouldn't matter if you told little old me." He smirked.

Harleen couldn't help but smirk back—she had remembered meeting him briefly while researching her Joker paper—but she knew he hadn't remembered her. Especially after things fell with Falconi—she would have become little more than a blond blur.

"So, what did you think about the big J." He asked—changing the subject after one too many lapsed seconds of silence.

Harleen's blood froze.

"Oh, it went well enough." She lied coolly.

"So, John, what is it you'd like to talk about today?"

"I want to talk about all sorts of in-appropriate things." He smiled.

"I want to talk about the new exhibit at the GFAM, the theory of eternal return," he nodded to his book. "The new Kar Wai film, good wines, how amazing you look in the color blue," he added with a wink. "my mommy issues—hell maybe even my daddy issues." He laughed.

"Not about Batman?" Harleen laughed.

"We've been over this—he's just another weirdo in a mask." Crane made thumb motions to himself paired with a goofy face.

"He's of no importance."

Harleen scribbled furiously in her notebook. Crane was the first of all of her patients to dismiss the idea of the batman as something totally in-consequential

"What really gets me going." Jonathan said with a genuine smile.

"Is what really scares a fearless flier like the Batman—like you."

.


	3. Ventolin

A/n: Sorry for the wait—holiday season and all got me a bit backed up. Thanks to everyone who's been giving such great feedback. I really appreciate it all guys—thanks ever so much!

Like I said, there's going to be a HUGE HUGE HUGE departure from the canon of …well…everyone coming up. I've done my best to stay true to the characters, but since I'm sort of going a very different direction with the Joker's origins/Harley's I would really appreciate some beta-reader folks while I'm getting things through the works. Comment if you're interested.

Not my characters—but my plot. You know the drill.

Enjoy!

Harleen left her appointment with Crane feeling somewhat more accomplished. It was true—that his mania was not as apparent as some of the rest of the patients she saw—but she knew how dangerous the man under those blue eyes could be.

She walked down the hallway which had shared the namesake of one of the City's most affluent bachelors (and perhaps Sookie's at-the-moment beau…): Bruce Wayne to her office in the left wing. It was raining—and despite the departed Dawes' mandate—she cracked the window and lit her cigarette—perched like some gold-blue bird on the heating system. Shostakovich's Op. three No.2 in C sharp minor sang just above a whisper over her computer speakers. Her thighs tensed as she heard the searing vocal notes. She exhaled a thin ribbon of smoke out the window, her coif and dress shielded from the deluge just beyond the frame.

When she was finished she flicked her cigarette out the window and closed it safely behind it. She reached into her desk—fumbling with the foil gum packaging only a moment before she gathered her papers, shoved the gum into her mouth---and set back down the hall toward her appointment with the joker.

What would she say? The thought struck her like an arrow through the heart as she laid her hand on the cool chrome of the doorknob. Would she play it tough? Pretend as if yesterday hadn't happened? Would she get in and quiver like the fall leaves in the rain outside? She turned the knob.

He didn't give her a moment to decide.

"Good Mornin' doc!" He greeted—eyes shining like an eager puppy at its master's heels.

He wasn't in a straight jacket today—just shackled by the ankles to the chair that was bolted to the floor, belted to said chair—and cuffed together at the wrists. But aside from the set-up, there was something different about him. There was something different about his face this morning. It was softer—even at the frayed lilac-scar corners of his mouth, it was softer.

"I know we got off to a rough start yesterday—but I'm prepared to tell you everything." He said—with a wink that would have put bugs bunny to shame.

Immediately, Harleen felt herself on the (comfortable) defensive.

"And just what is 'Everything' Joker?" She asked with feigned disinterest. She noticed he wasn't licking his chops—nor was he nervously moving as usual.

"Please—Call me J." He insisted—with an almost friendly looking smile.

"Well J, I'm interested to hear everything," She began with a little sigh.

"As you can imagine—I'd like to record this." She continued, pulling a mini-recorder out of her briefcase.

"By all means," Joker bowed his head and gestured warmly.

She pressed the red button on the recorder and sat back. Her heart was hammering in her chest. _Was this really the same person I saw yesterday_? She thought desperately—multiple personality disorder? She'd known he was manic…how long would this last?

"Well Doc, I've gotta tell ya," His voice was somewhere between this new "J" character—and the known voice of the Clown prince.

"It's up to you to sift through the bullshit." He smiled at her—his thick pink tongue darting out over his lips. _The Joker_ she almost whispered to herself.

"For obvious reasons," He continued, pointing to the recorder.

"If I tell you the whole truth—everyone's gonna know who I am." He made a hyper-distorted sad face.

"But only a pro can tell when a pathological liar is telling the truth." He winked at her.

"Or can they?" Harleen said with her own smirk.

He leaned back—his face still held in that style that seemed better if it were animated by Tex Avery or Bill Pete.

"I grew up in a little white house—with a little white fence, with mommy and daddy and baby Boo." He began.

_All an obvious fabrication. _Harleen noted.

"I got picked on at school—touched by my priest—and slapped around by daddy. We all know that story!" He continued—with little interest or effort in his story telling.

"So I started learning to stand up for myself." His voice changed—and Harleen scribbled furiously on her notepad as it did so.

"I started eating up marital arts classes with a spoon." He leaned forward counting off his fingers. "Capoeria, Kung Fu, Uechi Ryu, Tai Chi." He listed.

"They all came easy to me." He boasted—and Harleen could tell from his stringy build—and his reaction times that it was most likely true.

"I started becoming more reclusive, I'd always gotten good marks—that was never the problem." He continued—his brow furrowing. "It was people—I could never understand how so many _people_ could be happy with their horrifically boring and meaningless lives." His voice carried a distinct passion as he explained.

"So I became fascinated—as all boys do, with death." He continued.

"This uncontrollable force!" he got almost giddy.

"But then death got a little too close for comfort." He continued.

"My mother died from a glioblastoma." The word was cumbersome—and cold. But she could tell it was genuine—the sort of recitation that loved ones learn to perform when a friend or a stranger asks what's wrong.

"After that, I focused on trying to get into a good college—get a good job, have a wife, two point six kids and a Volvo." He motioned in a theatrical fashion—his knobby pink-flesh fingers dancing through Harleen's field of vision—practically painting the words _This part of the story has been changed for your protection…or some other valid reason._

"Somewhere along the way—after I scored a 1600 on my SATs at age sixteen, they had me take a whole line up of IQ tests. First, the standard school-run shit the WISC—its many cousins and step-brothers—then the real shit, Military—Government intelligence shit." He sat back, the bragging tone from his voice was expected, but not without basis—she could tell this was merely a stepping stone in the story—not some bullshit way of pumping himself up.

"I got in with all the wrong people. Government types—intelligence types."

He leaned forward, his hands on the table.

"I became part of a special group—a group of operatives code named 'Cat and Mouse'."

Harleen, who had been scribbling as if her arm might fly out of her rotator cuff, remembered herself suddenly in the whirlwind of what was happening the moment he said the word "operatives". She looked to the recorder on the table—then to the Joker—who was still intently telling his story. Every word coming out of his mouth was absolute truth to her up until this point. He had her—hook line and sinker, and even though she was trying hard to rationalize—even though she knew she should be cold and removed and skeptical; she leaned in to listen, placing her pen on the table.

"There were five of us." His voice sounded like any normal person's in these moments—and didn't let up for quite some time.

"We never shared our real names—only our assigned identities and code names. Somehow those chimps in suits thought that'd keep us 'removed from one another—that we wouldn't get attached."

Harleen imagined the young Joker—with his perfect face—the one she'd shifted together in the three-dimensional theatre in her brain.

"There was Dmitry Smolychyanov, their resident ' _vory v zakone'_ with the Russian mob, Junichiro Inagawa our tatted stateside Yak, Valentine Porcini—the greasy wop," and then something like the wetness of empathy flashed in his eyes for just an instant as he said "Hung-lee Yu—our big man in little china."

The joker seemed to slouch slightly—what might have been warmth radiating from his expression.

"They were all dirty rats—inside men. But even dirty rats need credibility. Rats need a cat to keep 'em in check. To vouch for their truly _bad_ behaviour."

And then he smiled that twisting, crooked smile that made Harleen's insides shudder. She could tell—it was here that he started to loose it. It was here that he must have divided himself to save his own delicate sensibilities to preserve some good in himself.

Well, at least that was what she was hoping.

"Jack Napier, I was now a 'CIA' or 'FBI' agent borne to give chase to my compatriots in a glorified game of cat and mouse that would eventually end with key members of major organized crime circles behind bars. Everything had worked relatively smoothly until some of us started catching wise."

"Catching wise?" Harleen echoed—speaking for the first time since the Joker told his tale.

"It's not nice to interrupt darling." The joker purred a little too sweetly for her taste. Harleen looked down at her hands and waited for him to continue in silence.

"I'm just getting to the good part." The grin again.

"Hung-Lee was a private assassin, every five jobs or so –good ol' Jack would happen to come and de-rail the assassination attempt—and Hung-Lee would end up plugging a supporting officer---maybe nick the target's arm or something—but you get the picture." The joker waggled his eyebrows and gave a knowing smile.

"But one job—he capped the target. The feds had told me to run interference—but there was just no way that both Hung-Lee and I could play our parts and not blow our cover by bungling either his assassination or my capture of him. Needless to say, the feds were angry—and they wanted to claim their 'Pound of flesh' so to speak."

He leaned back in his chair and exhaled.

"Sicheng Li Weng, the big boss, was married to Hsin Bao--"

"The Cellist? As in Gotham Philharmonic?" Harleen interjected—completely lost in the Joker's tale.

"The very same." He grinned, as if to show his approval of her knowledge.

"Hung Lee was ordered by our superiors to murder Hsin Bao—to exact 'revenge' upon the wicked."

The joker's speaking pace quickened, and his fingers began drumming nervously on the table. Harleen could tell that the recounting was beginning to cause him some stress. That—or this elaborate monologue was entering the peak of it's performance arc…

"While he wasn't 100% jake with the idea of capping a completely and totally innocent woman—what other choice did we have? We didn't exist anywhere other than inside these bizarre government-issued personas. So of course he went to the symphony—and waited in her dressing room for her to return."

He took a deep breath, and his eyes flashed.

"THAT'S WHEN HE SAW IT!" The joker yelped angrily, smacking all five fingers down on the table at once with one loud clap.

Harleen jolted in her seat.

"There was a positive pregnancy test in her waste basket. And while we may have been a fine group of scoundrels—Hung Lee drew his line at an innocent woman and her unborn child."

He went quiet, looking down at his plush bunny slippers—as if the story had ended. Harleen allowed several minutes to lapse before she spoke.

"What happened to Hung Lee? " She croaked quietly.

"Well Doctor, I imagine you could guess." He pointed his hands in the shape of a gun and pointed it straight between her eyes.

"Bang . Bang." He said dispassionately before lolling his head to the side—making cross eyes with his tongue hanging out.

Harleen shivered.

"After that—Sicheng's goons went after the guy they thought was responsible." The joker shrugged.

"Oh my god!" Harleen gasped.

"That's right Harley Baby—they went after the government man." He smacked his lips and nodded to himself.

"They made sure that wherever I went—I would have a _SMILE_ on my face." He hissed.

Harleen closed her eyes and put her face in her hands. She could hear the tape clicking –signaling its completion. She didn't even wonder how long it had been like that—she just tried to keep her head from spinning—sorting out the truth and the lie.

"After that—Jun and Val stitched me up and got me on my feet again. The rest of us decided that the government were no better than the criminals they were supposed to be cleaning up. There were no ends that could justify their means. So we disappeared."

He waved his hands in front of his face like a Parisian street mime—but Harleen was still reeling too badly to notice the tail end of his performance.

"Next time we'll talk about the Batman Doc, why don't you go home and get some rest." He said, in an almost mocking tone.

"Oh, how very kind of you." Harleen sighed, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

She took one last "good" look at him before collecting her things and heading for the door.

"Thank you for your co-operation today Joker." She quipped pleasantly.

"No doc, thank you." He replied—a dangerous smile creeping across his lips.


	4. On

Harleen had already ran on her treadmill for about 3 ½ miles—sparkling white asics thumping on the rotating rubber ribbon; sweat pouring from her brow, behind her knees, between her breasts.

Not enough.

Over to Gotham sports club to lift weights. Lunges. Crunches. Chin ups.

Not enough.

Harleen needed to be cleansed, she needed to become something more.

She needed mats.

She needed a beam, uneven bars, and maybe a vault.

While Harleen had never had a gymnast's body, or a hunger for competition—she did always have a love of gymnastics. They had always had an ability to set her free.

Cheerleading had been an outlet in high school for the picture-perfect Harleen. Now, this dusty gym gave her the desired effect without the drama of her teammates/their vapid company.

And so, She tumbled, she vaulted, she balanced, and she watched the world smear together and spin as she flew from level to level on the uneven bars. Somehow it was easier—she didn't have time to think about him here. There were more pressing issues; staying airborne and landing safely to name a few.

But soon 9:30 came—and all the fluorescent lights began to give way to darkness as the gym closed—signaling the call to arms: the journey home.

* * *

Harleen had hoped the gym and other exertions would have worn her out—but when she arrived home the blaring silence of her empty apartment crashed down around her like some phantom tidal wave.

She turned on the television in an attempt to fill the void, ran the bathwater and peeled off her sweaty clothes—trying to think of anything but the poor, twisted Mr. J.

Harleen eased into the warm, slightly soapy water with a tiny squeaking sigh. She piled her golden locks on top of her head and fastened them with a tortoiseshell clip—Rachmaninoff's "Lilacs" playing quietly over the small stereo on the windowsill. The candlelight glowed gently on the water's surface as she reached for a bottle of sake-oil body wash Sookie had given her as part of a holiday gift basket. Knowing Sookie, the 10 oz bottle had probably cost 40 dollars.

She inhaled deeply as she worked the soap into a lather over her shoulders and elbows. The scent had some sort of pavlovian calming effect—and Harleen felt for a moment: a deep serenity.

By time she'd toweled off and hopped into her pajamas, Harleen's nerves felt like tiny brittle glass charms jangling together on an impossible cosmic chain.

She turned off the light, the hysterical darkness pulsing around her like a living animal as she slid under the covers.

That's where he found her.

At first she could only see a boy—reaching, stretching; not only with his arms, but with the hopeful and innocent eyes of a child. Then, the angry young man, fighting everyone and everything—unspoken vendettas against life itself. She saw the renegade—the government man—the secret agent.

_Fox on the run_.

Mister J—with his Glasgow smile—spitting out those six words:

"I want to fuck you raw."

Here in the dark is where Harleen first let him in.

It started off slow—then spiraled out of control.

It was impossible for Harleen not to feel almost guilty for what happened next. Each tiny motion: the sheets sliding over her knees as they bent, the cotton eyelet hem of her nightgown passing her fingertips, knuckles, wrist; brought home the glaring reality that it was about him. He was the reason for this madness, and she wanted him so badly that she had ceased to care at her most basic level that the man was a sick, twisted, psychopathic murderer.

There was a whole new dimension to her pleasure. Each motion laced with shame, Harleen imagined her patient; cuffs off, hospital scrubs around his knees—still in his straight jacket—straps and buckles jangling with each thrust.

It was in the wake of orgasm that Harleen began to understand the gravity of what had just happened. She was not only attracted to the good-hearted hard-luck Mr. J: Jack Napier, but also his dark and mangled persona—the Joker. While Harleen could justify her attraction to one, she found it far more dangerous to examine just how she could want to be with such a monster.

Because of the nature of the situation, Harleen had abstained from sharing her psychiatric findings with Dr. Kosta. However, in light of her own personal discovery, Harleen resolved to take her reports to Kosta before seeing her first patients the next morning.

* * *

When she arrived the next morning, Arkham seemed to be an entirely different place than the day before. The floors had been polished, the windows had been washed, and every patient Harleen passed was adorned in a new pair of pajamas, slippers, and a robe.

Perplexed, but unwavering—Harleen moved quickly down the hallway to Kosta's Office—her heels clicking loudly on the gleaming tile floors. When she reached Kosta's office she did not knock, just swung the door open like they do in movies and on television.

"What fantastic timing!" Kosta beamed. He was standing in front of his large bay window next to a handsome man in a designer suit.

"Doctor Kosta," Harleen started to interject.

"This is doctor Harleen Quinzel." Kosta announced to his guest. Harleen nodded curtly.

"Doctor," Harleen began again, only to be ignored by Kosta once more.

"Doctor," He pressed. "_This_ is Mr. Bruce Wayne."

Harleen looked the notorious Mr. Wayne over. He was a little over six feet, with his almost pompadoured coif, Armani suit, and Prada shoes.

Sookie had been right—he was a lot better looking in person.

Harleen did not have time for this dog and pony show. She didn't care who was waiting to talk to Kosta, but luckily her thinking brain convinced her that pleasing Kosta ultimately meant keeping her job and continuing her research—so she decided to play along.

"Good Morning Mr. Wayne." Harleen greeted in the sacchrin sweetness of necessity and requirement.

"Doctor Quinzel, it's an absolute pleasure—Doctor Kosta has been singing your praises all morning, I feel like the city owes you an incredible debt already." Mr. Wayne greeted her warmly. His voice had an almost woody-richness to it that Harleen hadn't expected. The man was oozing charisma—she felt it before she even clasped his hand in an inevitable handshake.

"Mr. Wayne, I hope you can excuse me barging right in. You're far too flattering to a frazzled doctor with rusty manners." Harleen offered as pleasantly as she could—her heart was hammering in her chest to the impossible bpm of anxiety.

It was going to be a very long morning.


End file.
